With all the outcry that has been raised at the slow progress of the war, it is difficult for a comprehensive mind to conceive how, on the whole, the struggle with the South could have advanced more favorably to the general interests and future prosperity of the whole country, than it has thus far done. 'Had the Administration been possessed of sufficient energy, it could have crushed the rebellion in the first month,' say the grumblers. Very possibly—to break out again! No amount of prompt action could have calmed the first fire and fury of the South. It required blood; it was starving for war; it was running over with hatred for the North.

The war went on, and, as it progressed, it became evident that, while thousands deprecated agitation of the slave question as untimely, the war could never end until that question was disposed of. And it also became every day more plain that the 'little arrangement' so frequently insisted on, and expressed in the words, 'Conquer the enemy first, and then free the slaves,' was a little absurdity. It was 'all very pretty,' but with the whole North and South at swords-points over this as the alleged cause of war—with all Europe declaring that the North had no intention of removing the cause of the war—with the slave constantly interfering in all our military movements—and, finally, with a party of domestic traitors springing up everywhere, at home and in the army itself, it became high time to adopt a fixed policy. It was adopted, and President Lincoln, to his lasting honor, and despite tremendous opposition, issued the Proclamation of January First—the noblest document in history.

It is difficult to see how, when, or in what manner slavery would have disappeared from a single State, had the war been sooner ended; and nothing is more certain than that any early victory or temporary compromise would have simply postponed the struggle, to be settled with compound interest. But another benefit has resulted and is resulting from the experience of the past two years. Our own Free States have abounded with men who are at heart traitors; men who have, by their ignorance of the great principles of national welfare involved in this war, acted as a continual drawback on our progress. This body of men, incapable of comprehending the great principles of republicanism as laid down in the Constitution, and as urged by Washington, would be after all only partially vanquished should we subdue the rebels. They are around us here in our own homes; their treason rings from the halls of national legislation; they are busy night and day in their 'copperhead' councils in giving aid and comfort to the enemy, and in poisoning the minds of the ignorant, by hissing slanders at the President and his advisers as being devoid of energy and ability.

It would avail us little could we conclude a peace to-morrow, if these aiders and abetters of treason—these foes of all enlightened measures—these worse than open rebels—were to remain among us to destroy by their selfishness and malignity those great measures by which this country is destined to become great. The war is doing us the glorious service of bringing the 'copperheads' before the people in their true light—the light of foes to equality, to the rights of the many, and as perverse friends of all that is anti-American. Who and what, indeed, are their leaders! Review them all, from Fernando Wood down to the wretched Saulsbury, including W. B. Reed, in whose veins hereditary traitorous blood seems, with every descent, to have acquired a fresh taint—consider the character which has for years attached to most of them—and then reflect on what a party must be with such leaders!

These men have no desire to be brought distinctly before the public; they would by far prefer to burrow in silence. But the war and emancipation have proved an Ithuriel's spear to touch the toad and make him spring up in his full and naturally fiendish form. The sooner and the more distinctly he is seen, the better will it be for the country. We must dispose of rebels abroad and copperheads at home ere we can have peace, and the sooner the country knows its foes, the better will it be for it. We have come at last to either carrying out the great centralizing system of an Union, superior to all States Rights, as commended by Washington, or to division into a thousand petty principalities, each ruled by its WOOD, or other demagogue, who can succeed in securing a majority-mob of adherents!

It is with such men and their measures that Gen. George B. McClellan, the frequently proposed candidate for the next presidency, is becoming firmly connected in the minds of the people! Fortunately the war has developed the objects of the traitors, and the Union Leagues which are springing up by hundreds over the country are doing good service in making them thoroughly known. Until treason is fairly rooted out at home and abroad, and until Union at the centre for the people everywhere is fully enforced, this war can only be concluded now, to be renewed in tenfold horror to-morrow.

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There is a complication of interests at present springing up in Europe, which is difficult to fathom. Just now it seems as if the Polish insurrection were being fomented by Austria, at French instigation, in order that the hands of Russia may be tied, so that in case of war with America, we may be deprived of the aid of our great European friend. England sees it in this light, and angrily protests against Prussian interference in the matter. Should a general war result, who would gain by it? Would France avail herself of the opportunity to array her forces against Prussia, and seize the Rhine, and perhaps Belgium? Or would the Emperor avail himself of circumstances to embroil England in a war, and then withdraw to a position of profitable neutrality? Let it be borne in mind, meantime, that it required all the strength of France, England, and Austria, combined, to beat Russia in the Crimea, and that a short prolongation of the war would have witnessed the arrival of vast bodies of Russian troops—many of whom had been nearly a year on the march. Those troops are now far more accessible in case of war.

A war between England and the United States, however it might injure us, would be utter ruin to our adversary. With our commerce destroyed, we should still have a vast territory left; but nine tenths of England's prosperity lies within her wooden walls, which would be swept from the ocean. With her exportation destroyed, England would be ruined. We should suffer, unquestionably, but we could hold our own, and would undoubtedly progress as regards manufacturing. But what would become of the British workshops, and how would the British people endure such suffering as never yet befell them? Even with our Southern Rebellion on our hands, and English men-of-war on our coast, we could still, with our merchant marine, bring John Bull to his face. And John Bull knows it.

England is now building, in the cause of slavery and for the South, a great fleet of iron-clad pirate vessels, which are intended to prey on our commerce. How long will it be before retaliation on England begins, and, when it begins, how will it end? Ay—how will it end? It is not to be supposed that we can long be blinded by such a flimsy humbug as a transfer to Southern possession of these vessels 'for the Chinese trade!' Are the English mad, demented, or besotted, that they suppose we intend to endure such deliberate aid of our enemies? When those vessels 'for the Chinese' are afloat, and our merchants begin to suffer, let England beware! We are not a people to stop and reason nicely on legal points, when they are enforced in the form of fire and death. Better for England that she weighed the iron of that fleet pound for pound with gold, and cast it into the sea, than that she suffered it to be launched. Qui facit per alium, facit per se. England is the real criminal in this business, for her Government could have prevented it; and to her we shall look for the responsibility. All through America a spirit of fierce indignation has been awakened at hearing of this 'Chinese' fleet, which will burst out ere long in a storm. We are very far from being afraid of war—we are in it; we know what it is like—and those who openly, brazenly, infamously, aid our enemies and make war for them, shall also learn, let it cost what it may.

England hopes to cover the world's oceans with pirates, with murder, rapine, and robbery—to exaggerate still more the horrors of war—and yet deems that her commerce will escape! This is a different matter from the affair of the Trent.

---

Don't grumble! Don't be incessantly croaking from morning to night at the war and the administration and the generals, and everything else! Things have gone better on the whole than you imagine, and your endless growling is just what the traitors like. Were there no croakers there would be no traitors.

It was growling and croaking which caused the reverses of the army of the Potomac—sheer grumbling. Now the truth is coming out, and we are beginning to see the disadvantages of eternal fault-finding. The truth is that the war in the Crimea was much worse conducted than this of ours has been—even as regards swindling by contracts—and it was so with every other war. We have no monopoly of faults.

Now that the war is being reorganized, we would modestly suggest that a little severity—say an occasional halter—would not be out of place as regards deserters. There has been altogether too much of this amusement in vogue, which a few capital punishments in the beginning would have entirely obviated. Pennsylvania, we are told, is full of hulking runaway young farmers, and our cities abound in ex-rowdies, who, after securing their bounties, have deserted, and who are now aiding treason, and spreading 'verdigrease' in every direction by their falsehoods. Let every exertion be made to arrest and return these scamps—cost what it may; and let their punishment be exemplary. And let there be a new policy inaugurated with the new levy, which shall effectually prevent all further escaping.

---

Reader—wherever you are, either join a Union League, or get one up. If there be none in your town, gather a few friends together—and mind that they be good, loyal Unionists, without a suspicion of verdigrease or copperhead poison about them—and at once put yourselves in connection with the central Leagues of the great cities. Those of Philadelphia, New York and Boston are all conducted by honorable men of the highest character—and we may remark, by the way, that in this respect the contrast between the leaders of the League and of the Verdigrease Clubs is indeed remarkable. When you have formed your League, see that addresses are delivered there frequently, that patriotic documents and newspapers are collected there, and finally that it does good service in every way in forwarding the war, and in promoting the determination to preserve the Union.

The copperheads aim not only at letting the South go—they hope to break the North to fragments, and trust that in the general crash each of them may secure his share. When the war first broke out, Fernando Wood publicly recommended the secession of New York as a free city—and a very free city it would have been under the rule of Fernando the First! And this object of 'dissolution and of division' is still cherished in secret among the true leaders of the traitors.

The time has come when every true American should go to work in earnest to strengthen the Union and destroy treason, whether in the field or at home. A foe to liberty and to human rights is a foe, whether he be a fellow countryman or not, and against such foes it is the duty of every good citizen to declare himself openly.

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It will be seen by the annexed that our Art correspondent, a gentleman of wide experiences, has gone into the battle. We trust that his experiences will amuse the reader. As for the facts—never mind!

Camp O'Bellow,
Army of the Potomac.

My Patriotic Friend and Editor:

I have changed my base.

When I last wrote you, it was from the field of art—this time it is from the floor of my tent—at least it will be, as soon as my fellows pitch it. N. B.—For special information I would add that this is not done, as I have seen a Kalmouk do it, with a bucket of pitch and a rag on a stick. One way, however, of pitching tents is to pitch 'em down when the enemy is coming, and run like the juice. Ha, ha!

But I must not laugh too loudly, as yon small soldier may hear me. Little pitchers have long ears.

Now for my sufferings.

The first is my stove.

My stove is made of a camp kettle.

It has such a vile draught that I think of giving it a lesson in drawing. Joke. Perhaps you remember it of old in the jolly old Studio Building in Tenth Street. By the way how is Whittredge?—I believe he imported that joke from Rome where he learned it of Jules de Montalant who acquired it of Chapman who got it from Gibson, who learned it of Thorwaldsen who picked it up from David who stole it from the elder Vernet to whom it had come down from Michael Angelo who cribbed it from Albert DÜrer who sucked it somehow from Giotto.

I wish you could see that stove. I cook in it and on it and all around the sides and underneath it. I wash my clothes in it, make punch in it, write on it, when cold sit on it, play poker on it, and occasionally use it for a trunk. It also gives music, for though it don't draw, it can sing.

My second friend is my Iron Bride—the sword. She is a useful creeter. Little did I think, when you, my beloved friends, presented me with that deadly brand, how useful she would prove in getting at the brandy, when I should have occasion to 'decap' a bottle. She kills pigs, cuts cheese, toasts pork, slices lemons, stirs coffee, licks the horses, scares Secesh, and cuts lead pencils. In a word, if I wished to give useful advice to a cavalry officer, it would be not to go to war without a sword.

A revolver is also extremely utilitarious. A large revolver, mind you, with six corks. Mine contains red and black pepper, salt, vinegar, oil, and ketchup—when I'm in a hurry. A curious circumstance once 'transpired,' as the missionaries say, in relation to this article of the quizzeen. All the barrels were loaded—which I had forgotten—and so proceeded to give it an extra charge of groceries. * * *

It was a deadly fray. Rang tang bang, paoufff! We fought as if it had been a Sixth Ward election. Suddingly I found myself amid a swarm of my country's foes. Sabres slashed at me, and in my rage I determined to exterminate something. Looking around from mere force of habit to see that there were no police about, I drew my revolver and aimed at Jim Marrygold of Charleston, whom I had last seen owling it in New Orleans, four years ago. He and Dick Middletongue of Natchez (who carved the Butcher's Daughter at Florence, and who is now a Secesh major), came down with their cheese knives, evidently intending to carve me. Such language you never heard, such a diluvium of profanity, such double-shotted d—ns! I drew my pistol at once, and gave Dick a blizzard. The ball went through his ear—the red pepper took his eyes, while Jim received the shot in his hat, and with it the sweet oil. In this sweet state of affairs, Charley Ruffem of Savannah was descending on me with his sabre. (He was the man who said my browns were all put in with guano.) I put him out of the way of criticism with a third barrel—killed him dead, and salted him.

The best of this war is, it enables me to exterminate so many bad artists.

The worst of it is that Charley owed me five dollars.

A fifth Secesh now made his appearance. We went it on the sword, and fought—for further particulars see Ivanhoe, volume second. My foe was Rawley Chivers, of Tuscumbia, Ala., and as the mischief would have it, he knew all my guards and cuts. We used to fence together, and had had more than one trial at 'fertig-los!' on the old Pauk-boden in Heidelberg.

'Pop!' said he on the seventeenth round, 'are we going to chop all day?'

'Chiv,' said I, as I drew my castor, 'are you ready?'

'Ready,' quoth he, effecting the same manoeuvre—'one, two, three.'

I scratched his cheek, but the mustard settled him. Sputter—p'l'z'z'z—how he swore! I went at him with both hands.

'Priz?' I cried.

'Priz it is,' he answered.

So I took him off as a priz. He was very glad to go too, for he hadn't had a dinner for six weeks, and would have made a fine study for a Murillo beggar so ar as rags went.

I punish my men whenever I catch them foraging. Punish them by confiscation. Mild as I am by nature, I never allow them to keep stolen provisions—when I am hungry.

Yesterday evening I detected a vast German private with a colossal bull-turkey.

'Lay it down there, sir!' I exclaimed fiercely—indicating the floor of my tent as the bank of deposit.

'But den when I leafs it you eats de toorky up!' he exclaimed in sorrowful remonstrance.

'Yes,' I replied, like a Roman. 'Yes—I may eat it—but,' I added in tones of high moral conscientiousness, 'remember that I didn't STEAL it!'

He went forth abashed.

No more till it is eaten, from

Yours truly,
POPPY OYLE.

---

We are indebted to a Philadelphia correspondent for the following:

Alas! that noble thoughts so oft
Are born to live but for an hour,
Then sleep in slumber of the soul
As droops at night the passion flower,
Their morn is like a summer sun
With splendor dawning on the day—
Their eve beholds that glory gone,
And light with splendor fled away.
J. W. L.

True indeed. The difference between the great mind and the small is after all that the former can retain its 'noble thoughts,' while with the latter they are evanescent. And it is the glory of Art that it revives such feelings, and keeps early impressions alive.

---

FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINE.

My love, in our light boat riding,
We sat at the close of day;
And still through the night went gliding,
Afar on our watery way.
The Spirit Isle, soft glowing,
Lay dimmering 'neath moon and star;
There music was softly flowing,
And cloud dances waved afar:
And ever more sweetly pealing,
And waving more winningly;
But past it our boat went stealing,
All sad on the wide, wide sea.

---

Here is an

ADVENTURE WITH A GRIZZLY BEAR,

from a Philadelphia correspondent:

---

In the old times people received queer names, and plenty of them. On Long Island a Mr. Crabb named a child 'Through-much-tribulation-we-enter-into-the-kingdom-of-heaven Crabb.' The child went by the name of Tribby. Scores of such names could be cited. The practice of giving long and curious names is not yet out of date. In Saybrook, Conn., is a family by the name of Beman, whose children are successively named as follows:

1. Jonathan Hubbard Lubbard Lambard Hunk Dan Dunk Peter Jacobus Lackany Christian Beman.

2. Prince Frederick Henry Jacob Zacheus Christian Beman.

3. Queen Caroline Sarah Rogers Ruhamah Christian Beman.

4. Charity Freelove Ruth Grace Mercy Truth Faith and Hope and Peace pursue I'll have no more to do for that will go clear through Christian Beman.

Some of the older American names were not unmusical. In a Genealogical Register open before us we frequently find Dulcena, Eusena, Sabra, and Norman; 'Czarina' also occurs. Rather peculiar at the present day are Puah and Azoa (girls), Albion, Ardelia, Philomelia, Serepta, Persis, Electa, Typhenia, Lois, Selim, Damarias, Thankful, Sephemia, Zena, Experience, Hilpa, Penninnah, Juduthum, Freelove, Luthena, Meriba (this lady married 'Oney Anness' at Providence, R.I., in 1785), Paris, Francena, Vienna, Florantina, Phedora, Azuba, Achsah, Alma, Arad, Asenah, Braman, Cairo, Candace, China (this was a Miss Ware—China Ware—who married Moses Bullen at Sherburne, Mass., in 1805), Curatia, Deliverance, Diadema, Electus, Hopestill, Izanna, Loannis, Loravia, Lovice, Orilla, Orison, Osro, Ozoro, Permelia, Philinda, Roavea, Rozilla, Royal, Salmon, Saloma, Samantha, Silence, Siley, Alamena, Eda, Aseneth, Bloomy, Syrell, Geneora, Burlin, Idella, Hadasseh, Patrora (Martainly), Allethina, Philura, and Zebina.

Some of these names are still extant—most have become obsolete. It would be a commendable idea should some scholar publish a work containing the Names of all Nations!

---

Doubtless the reader has heard much of the Wandering Jew and of his trials, but we venture to say that he has probably not encountered a more affecting state of the case than is set forth in the following lyric, translated from the German, in which language it is entitled 'Ahasver,' and beginneth as follows:

THE EVERLASTING OLD JEW.

'Ich bin der alte
Ahasver,
Ich wand're hin,
Ich wand're her.
Mein Ruh ist hin,
Mein Herz ist schwer,
Ich finde sie nimmer,
Und nimmermehr.'
I am the old
AhasuÉr;
I wander here,
I wander there.
My rest is gone,
My heart is sair;
I find it never,
And nevermair.
Loud roars the storm,
The milldams tear;
I cannot perish,
O malheur!
My heart is void,
My head is bare;
I am the old
AhasuÉr.
Belloweth ox
And danceth bear,
I find them never,
Never mair.
I'm the old Hebrew
On a tare;
I order arms:
My heart is sair.
I'm goaded round,
I know not where:
I wander here,
I wander there.
I'd like to sleep,
But must forbear:
I am the old
AhasuÉr.
I meet folks alway
Unaware:
My rest is gone,
I'm in despair.
I cross all lands,
The sea I dare:
I travel here,
I wander there.
I feel each pain,
I sometimes swear:
I am the old
AhasuÉr.
Criss-cross I wander
Anywhere;
I find it never,
Never mair.
Against the wale
I lean my spear;
I find no quiet,
I declare.
My peace is lost,
My heart is sair:
I swing like pendulum in air.
I'm hard of hearing,
You're aware?
CuraÇoa is
A fine liquÉur.
I 'listed once
En militaire:
I find no comfort
Anywhere.
But what's to stop it?
Pray declare!
My peace is gone.
My heart is sair:
I am the old
AhasuÉr.
Now I know nothing,
Nothing mair.

Truly a hard case, and one far surpassing the paltry picturing of EugÈne Sue. There is a vagueness of mind and a senile bewilderment manifested in this poem, which is indeed remarkable.

---

One fine day, some time ago, Savin and Pidgeon were walking down Fifth avenue to their offices.

A funeral was starting from No. —. On the door plate was the word Irving.

'Such is life,' said Savin. 'All that is mortal of the great essayist is being borne to the grave: in fact, the cold and silent tomb.'

A tear came to Pidgeon's eye. Pidgeon has an enthusiastic veneration for genius. He adores literary talent.

'Savin,' said he, 'there is a seat vacant in this carriage. I will enter it, and pay my last tribute of respect to the illustrious departed. But I thought he had a place up the river.'

'This was his town house,' said Savin. 'How I should like to join with you in your thoughtful remembrance, and in your somewhat unceleritous journey to the churchyard! But, no, the case of Blackbridge vs. Bridgeblack will be called at twelve, and I have no time to lose.'

Pidgeon entered the carriage. There was a large man on the seat, but Pigeon found room beside him. The carriage slowly moved off. Pidgeon put his handkerchief to his eyes; the large man coughed and took a chew of tobacco.

Presently said Pidgeon:

'We are following to the grave the remains of a splendid writer.'

'Uncommon,' said the large man. 'Sech a man with a pen I never see—ekalled by few, and excelled by none; copperplate wasn't nowhere.'

'Indeed,' replied Pidgeon, 'I wasn't aware his chirography was so unusually elegant; but his books were magnificent, weren't they? So equable, too, and without that bold speculation that we too often meet with, nowadays.'

'Ah, you may well say so,' returned the large man. 'He always kept them himself; had 'em sent up to his house whenever he was sick, likeways; but he wasn't without his bold speculations neither. Look at that there operation of his into figs, last year.'

'Figs!'

'Figs, yes; and there was dates into the same cargo.'

'Dates! figs! My good friend, do you mean to say that the great Washington Irving speculated in groceries?'

'Lord, no, not that I know of. This here is Josh Irving, whose remains'—

Pidgeon opened the carriage door, and, being agile, got out without stopping the procession. Arriving at his office, where the boy was diligently occupied in sticking red wafers over the velvet of his desk lid, he took down 'Sugden on Vendors,' to ascertain if there was any legal remedy for the manner in which he had been sold, and at the latest dates had unsuccessfully travelled nearly half through that very entertaining volume.

There is no time to be lost. Either the Union is to be made stronger, or it is to perish; and the sooner every man's position is defined, the better. If you are opposed to the war, say so, and step over to Secession, but do not falter and equivocate, croak and grumble, and play the bat of the fable. The manly, good, old-fashioned Democrats, at least, are above this, and are rapidly dividing from the copperheads. The Philadelphia Evening Bulletin, a staunch patriotic journal, says:

'The sooner that the fact is made clear that the mass of the Democrats, as well as of all other parties, are loyal and opposed to the infamous teachings of Vallandigham, Biddle, Reed, Ingersoll, Wood, and their compeers, the sooner will the war be brought to an end and the Union be restored.'

Show your colors. Let us know at once who and what everybody is, in this great struggle.

---

LOVE-LIFE.

In a forest lone, 'neath a mossy stone,
Pale flowrets grew:
No sunlight fell in the sombre dell,
Raindrop nor dew.
Bring them to light, where all is bright,
See if they grow?
Yes, stem and leaf are green,
While, hid in crimson sheen,
The petals glow.
Girl blossoms, too, love the sun and dew,
And the soft air:
Hidden from love's eye they fade and die,
In city low or cloister high,
Yes, everywhere.
Give them but love, the fire from above,
And they will grow,
The once cold children of the gloom,
Rich in their bloom, shedding perfume
On high and low.

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We beg leave to remind our readers that Mr. Leland's new book, Sunshine in Thought, retail price $1, is given as a premium to all who subscribe $3 in advance to the Continental Monthly. Will the reader permit us to call attention to the following notice of the work from the Philadelphia Evening Bulletin:

'A beautiful volume, entitled Sunshine in Thought, by Charles Godfrey Leland, has just been published by Charles T. Evans. No work from Mr. Leland's pen has afforded us so much pleasure, and we recommend it to all who want and relish bright, refreshing, cheering reading. It consists of a number of essays, the main idea of which is to inculcate joyousness in thought and feeling, in opposition to the sickly, sentimental seriousness which is so much affected in literature and in society. That a volume based on this one idea should be filled with reading that is never tiresome, is a proof of great cleverness. But Mr. Leland's varied learning, and his extensive acquaintance with foreign as well as English literature, combine with his native talent to qualify him for such a work. He has done nothing so well, not even his admirable translation of Heine's Reisebilder. He is thoroughly imbued with the spirit of his motto, 'Hilariter,' and in expressing his bright thoughts, he has been peculiarly felicitous in style. Nothing of his that we have read shows so much elegance and polish. Every chapter in the book is delightful, but we especially enjoyed that on 'TannhÆuser,' with the fine translation and subsequent elucidation of the famous legend.' But the boldest and most original chapter is the concluding one, with its strange speculations on 'The Musical After-Life of the Soul,' and the after-death experience of 'Dione' and 'Bel-er-oph-on,' which the author characterizes in the conclusion as 'an idle, fantastic, foolish dream.' So it may be, but it is as vividly told as any dream of the Opium-Eater or the Hasheesh-Eater. Mr. Leland is to be congratulated on his Sunshine in Thought. It is a book that will be enjoyed by every reader of culture, and its effect will be good wherever it is read.'